“You don’t need to know how to speak,” she said. “The writing is the sensual part.”
The first Tuesday of September is clearly a signal change. Work was dead and the neighbourhood was alive; a sharp increase in plaid shirts, cardigans and beards wandering Yonge and St. Clair. It’s always been my favourite time of the year, as long as I can ignore that it prefaces my least favourite. I take quite a bit of inspiration from the sense of intellectual renewal that comes with back-to-school. People’s brains seem tired of the heat and candy of the summertime and seem ready for something a little more challenging again.
Plus, autumn is perfect for wearing Adidas warm-up jackets, which is always a plus.
For the second week in a row I’ve been graced with two consecutive days off by my employer, this time with the added bonus of my partner being back to work, leaving me with the house to myself. It sounds cold and rude to be happy for such a thing, I know, but her presence can be a hindrance to my productivity, through no fault of her own. We just enjoy each other so much, becomes impossible for me to focus on writing, since I want to hang out with her. So it’ll be good to have a couple days to hole up and get some things done, even though my root canal saga from last month will conclude its epilogue on Thursday. So don’t point and laugh when you see a guy at Starbucks drooling all over his notebook because his face is still frozen.
Off to continue through the new Jonathan Lethem book, which I’m still not sure I like. Details will follow once I’m done. Little Children by Tom Perrotta and Richard Price’s Samaritan will duke it out for my next reading. I suspect a plain and simple good story will cleanse the palate after Lethem’s questionable high concept. He’s actually really starting to upset me. But as I said, more to follow. For now, bed.